Ink in my Blood
by Maevelynn
Summary: A story about our favorite couple and about soul marks, set in the beginning of season one with slightly altered events and timelines. A Christmas gift for my beloved friend Kriss the Valnor! R&R but most of all, enjoy! xoxox
1. Chapter 1

**Merry Christmas to my dear friend and most faithful reader, inbid/Kriss de Valnor! This soul mark fic is dedicated to you, my friend! Again, love and best wishes to you and all your loved ones. xoxox**

**Now, a few notes before you dive in: this story takes place before and during the events of the first two episodes of season one, I simply altered a few things and the timeline is also a bit different.**

**I would also like to apologize for any typos you find, or any weirdly structured sentences or inadvertently invented words. I finished editing this at 3am and I honestly could not see straight anymore haha! Oh and I'm sorry this isn't a festive or happy or Christmas fic. It seems I can only write about pain and angst. Sorry!**

* * *

**Part I**

Maeve stood from the rickety chair where she sat, shuffling her feet to the broken window to peek at the stormy clouds outside. The sky was pitch black tonight, a mighty shadow as shapeless as smoke, ripped apart by the numerous lightening strikes that danced with the raging ocean in the distance. The crashing sound of the waves carried all the way to her home, a loud tempest roaring like a beast in a cage.

Chills ran down her spine as thunder rattled what was left of her little house, the walls trembling in fear while leaks were already flooding in every room. It wouldn't be long before the angry gales engulfed the rest of the poor little farm, bringing down the rest of its thatched roof once and for all. Fire had struck the first blow yesterday, a chaos of black magic and brute force, and now it seemed water would deal the final strike, washing away all the destruction.

But she would be gone by morning.

A cold splash of rain drizzled through the broken glass and sploshed on her face and neck, forcing her to look away after casting one last look at the terrible tempest blowing over the sea. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and returned to the table, where a map with wet edges lay flat on the surface, held in place by three feeble candles, their flames swaying in the wind that whistled through the many punctured holes in the house.

"_This is one monstrous storm,"_ Dermott commented from its perch on the back of the chair across from hers. "_What's left of the roof will surely be blown away tonight_."

"Aye," Maeve responded out loud, peering over the map. "The gods seem as vengeful as I am." Her eyes surfed on the parchment for the umpteenth time, carving every road and mountain and desert into her mind all the way to her destination, a long journey to redemption. "We should get some sleep."

She moved the candles aside and rolled the wet map into a scroll, tucking it in her bag amongst the rest of the few belongings she had salvaged from the wreckage of her home.

"_Are you certain you wish to do this?"_ Dermott's voice resonated in her mind like a far away echo, a strange connection she was only painfully getting used to.

"Aren't you?" She avoided his small keen eyes, resolutely packing her compass and gourd into her bag.

"_Of course, I am,"_ he answered with a tilt of his feathered head, hesitation seeping into his voice. _"But…I could go alone and-"_

"No, that is out of the question," Maeve cut him off squarely. "I'm not losing you, too."

Tension filled the room like a ghost, fragmented memories of the raid that had destroyed their lives yesterday filling up in the dark corners. But Dermott attempted to sweep them away at once, shuffling on the back of the chair to move closer to where she was standing, his tone soft and comforting. _"You still have a life, here, Maeve."_ He began tentatively, chirping with gentleness._ "Travelling all the way East…it will take months and who knows what might happen. We might never return to Eire. At least you still have a chance for a future here."_

Maeve shook her head at his hopeful words, her heart twisting in her chest as if a blade was struck between her ribs. "That future was lost yesterday. There's nothing left for me here, and neither for you."

Her head suddenly filled with flashes of the gruesome attack on her village yesterday, the skeletons warriors with their rattling bones cutting her people down, her father struck down by a battle axe between the shoulders, his blood spattering on her face as she fought by his side, her mother zapped by a strike of red magic bolt, falling to her knees in the mud and the blood, and her beloved brother, cursed because of her defiance against that murderess witch, when she refused to bend the knee to her rule...

Maeve shut her eyes closed to ward off the traumatizing images, the memories tearing at the edges of her wounds, still raw and bleeding inside her soul.

Dermott flapped his wings, attempting to draw her out of her shell. _"So you'll just turn your back on him? He lost his family, too, you know."_

Maeve glanced at the raging tempest outside, the shattered window dotted with rain. She returned to the glass and her eyes anchored on the ocean in the distance, tossed by the winds and by the wrath of whatever gods were out there. She half expected something to appear in the midst of the dark roaring waves, although she was unable to explain why. Some sort of sign...answers to explain the cruel fate of her family…hope for the days to come…She knew none of that could possibly reside in the darkness beyond, yet she kept staring at the sea, pulled to its fury by an invisible string.

Her flesh tingled with a strange sensation below her collarbone near her left shoulder and she lifted a hand to scratch at the curious itch beneath the fabric of her dress. When the stormy horizon remained the same black void, unchanged and indifferent to her scrutiny, her voice was sad and small when she finally spoke again. "You know I never loved him," she shook her head regretfully, swatting the memories away as she faced her brother. "Besides, the contract was broken when both our fathers were struck down yesterday."

She looked outside again, a restlessness taking root within her bones, the tingling sensation near her shoulder growing stronger. She searched the dark clouds, a heavy weight growing in the pit of her stomach. Lightening flashed and thunder clapped, rattling the walls around her and her brother. Shame and guilt gripped her, a meaty iron hand squeezing tight in her chest, clawing at her core.

"_It wasn't your fault,"_ Dermott spoke softly, both an echo of his old voice in her mind and a squawk in her ears. _"I know that's what you're thinking in that head of yours. But it wasn't. You couldn't have known what she would do…what she was capable of."_

Maeve pressed her lips together tightly, anger surfacing in her blood as thunder ripped the skies apart outside. _Rumina_. The name she would whisper in her worst nightmares from now on. The name she had carved into her very bones, etched in her resolve. She would not rest until the day she defeated her with a strike of her own fully-fledged magical abilities, or until she drove a sharp blade in the woman's heart and felt its final thumps. Magic or steel. Power or blood. Maeve didn't care. The witch would die one way or another.

"It doesn't matter," she said darkly. "I _will_ break the curse." Then she turned away, moving to her cot in the only corner of the room that was miraculously untouched by rain. "Now stop arguing with me and get some sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Dermott offered no further comment as she lay down beneath the frail blanket, the wind blasting like a horn outside, the storm still raging on like an indomitable beast. She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep, the gods lending a deaf ear to her wishes while the prickling sensation bellow her left collarbone continued to tease her flesh, until restless dreams took her by the hand and guided her to the world of shadows.

* * *

"Man overboard!"

Sinbad shook wet hair out of his eyes as he gripped the tiller for dear life, his brother grunting with mighty efforts beside him as they both struggled to maintain the ship's course through the angry waves. The skies were ripping open above them, the gods raining their fury down on their heads, unlike anything they had ever seen before in their travels at sea.

Lightning flashed and he saw his crew clinging to survival on deck, the ropes, the railing, the masts, anything to hang on to and not be swallowed by the gaping jaw of the ocean that was roaring to life like a hungry beast.

"I don't know if I ever told you, but it's been a pleasure sailing with you, Little Brother!" Doubar shouted over the pouring rain.

"Save your breath! You can tell me all about it tomorrow!" Sinbad replied at once, protesting against the man's ominous words. "This is just another storm! We'll get through it like we always have!"

Thunder clapped and a monstrous wave crashed on the starboard side, swaying the ship dangerously, sending a sailor to his doom as he was lost in the darkness with a fading scream of terror.

"I'm not so sure about that, Sinbad!" Doubar countered as they both yanked at the tiller to keep it straight, two men against the strength of the ocean. "This is a bad one!"

"Captain! The sails!" A young sailor yelled just as the main sail was torn out of its ties by the forceful winds and flew open, the main mast and the entire structure of the ship creaking in protest by the sudden jolt.

Sinbad and Doubar nearly lost their grip on the tiller as the Nomad dangerously lurched to the side, the storm blowing in the loose sail and threatening to capsize them as easily as swatting a fly.

"I have to go up!" Sinbad shouted to his brother and before the giant of a man could argue, he called after a sailor to replace him at the tiller. "Jamil!"

The poor sailor scurried up the quarter deck, wetter than a fish, and looped his arms with his brothers' in an attempt to stay the course.

Not wasting a second and ignoring his brother's shouts of protest, Sinbad dashed for the ratlines, the pouring rain drumming on his back like nails of ice, blurring his vision and numbing his senses. He jumped blindly and caught on the ropes, his arms burning as he arduously ascended the rigging to reach the main sail's frame. Lightening ripped the murderous skies once more and thunder roared in his ears like the growl of a monster, sending terrible chills down his spine, but he blinked through the rain and continued upward in his climb.

His hands were freezing cold and his fingers were numb, the rough cords scratching his flesh raw, but he couldn't let go, not even when the inside of his wrist tingled with an odd sensation, prickling like needles. But he had no time to ponder on it. If they didn't somehow manage to hoist the main sail up again, the ocean would swallow them whole.

He had almost reached its destination when the sea bellowed in anger and another massive wave smashed against the ship, jolting the entire structure like the strike of a hammer. The main mast stirred and cracked, a deep snapping sound that echoed over the deafening downpour, promising a deadly outcome if he didn't do something. If the mast ruptured, the entire ship would go down.

The inside of his wrist tingled again, a strange itch that begged to be scratched, and he released his iron grip on the ratlines to flick his hand in an attempt to dissolve the annoying feeling. He shook hair out of face again and as a forceful blow of stormy wind hit the loose sail again, causing another snapping sound down the mast, he knew he had no choice.

"Release the halyards!" he yelled the order through the thundering tempest, watching as sailors hurried over to the railings on either side to cut down the lines securing the main mast to the rest of the ship.

"Sinbad, NO!" Doubar cried out in wild worry, but too late.

One by one the ropes were slashed, releasing their secure hold, and as the ocean roared with another furious wave, everyone was tossed around on deck, a third sailor tumbling overboard into the raging black waters.

Sinbad groaned as he clutched the ratlines for dear life, drenched to the bones by the icy rain. He tried to climb down but his left wrist was suddenly caught, a tangle of rough wet cords shackling him in place, the itchy sensation now more present than ever like a bad omen as he realized with dread that he was trapped.

The main mast cracked again, a long drawn out snap, and suddenly everything was moving. The tension in the ratlines went dead and the mast began to fall, the wood twisting apart at the base like a dry twig breaking in two. A slow, terrible fall, where everyone on deck had just enough time to register what was happening and duck out of the way.

Sinbad clawed at the ropes as hard as he could, fingers white and frozen, and along with the main sail, he fell through the fury of the tempest until the main mast crashed overboard and into the ocean, a loud slamming sound that was lost in the hurling wind.

Water swallowed him, a thousand daggers of ice stabbing at his flesh, and within seconds everything went black, the shadows pulling him down into the belly of the sea.

* * *

Maeve woke up with a gasp, her eyes snapping open, her chest heaving as if she couldn't breathe and her shoulder was prickling like ice.

She sat up abruptly in her cot, the faint light of dawn filtering through the broken window, and her hand went to the fabric of her dress, pulling the sleeve down to expose the flesh below her collarbone where her skin tingled a thousand times stronger than the night before. She expected it to be red and raw, perhaps irritated by something, but instead the tip of her fingers brushed against the fine strokes of a symbol, inked into her flesh.

Panic was her first reaction and her feet swung out of the cot, taking her straight to the tall mirror across the room. She clawed at her dress and exposed her entire shoulder, shedding light on the strange mark.

An ocean wave trapped within a circular rainbow, the symbol no more than about an inch in diameter.

"_Is that what I think it is?"_ Dermott inquired with a sleepy squawk behind her, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

"This wasn't there last night," she observed, growing more and more upset, an old myth knocking at the door of her mind but her rational self refusing to let it in.

Dermott flapped his wings and landed on the mirror in front of her, almost at head level and peeking at her shoulder. _"By the gods, it looks like a soul mark!"_

"Don't be ridiculous!" A discarding huff immediately escaped her lips.

"_I thought they had vanished hundreds of years ago! This is remarkable!"_ her brother continued, his small head twisting at different angles as he studied the symbol carved into her flesh overnight.

"It's _not_ a soul mark," Maeve repeated insistently, panic swirling within her core. "That's impossible."

"_Well, those inky details and that odd sheen certainly remind me of how mother used to describe them from the books she read to us."_ He candidly noted, still peering interestedly at the mark from his perch.

"It doesn't even look like anything," Maeve protested annoyingly again, scrutinizing the symbol closer, noting how soft and detailed the delicate filigree looked, as if the pale blue wave was about to roll off her shoulder. Even the small border of rainbow colors looked alive, as if painted by faeries during the night.

"_Does it feel any different?"_ Dermott asked. _"The stories say the skin might itch or react in a specific way when the person it belongs to is close by."_

"I don't feel anything," Maeve grumbled, lying about the strange tingling sensation in her flesh as she complained. "Why would it appear now, of all times?"

"_You tell me. Life works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it's a sign. Perhaps it belongs to-"_

"Don't even say it," she cut him off before he could utter the name. "This is _not_ a soul mark, and even if it was, it certainly would _not_ be his." Maeve determinedly grabbed a clean rag, dipped it in water from the fresh pitcher she'd filled the previous night and began to vigorously scrub at her flesh to remove the unwelcomed symbol.

It made no sense. Why on earth would the gods decide to brand her right now, when she'd just lost everything and was about to embark on a long voyage at the other end of the world? Why _her_ of all people?

"I don't have time for this," she growled in irritation, the circular symbol refusing to leave her skin. "Dawn is almost upon us. We need to be gone within the hour." She tossed the cloth aside, fixed her dress back over her shoulder and before Dermott could even speak, she stormed out of the ruins of the small house.

* * *

"Captain Sinbad!"

His eyelids cracked open, the sound of his name a distant echo lost in the chaos of his mind. Sand. That was all he could see in the blinding light. Sand everywhere, white and gleaming under the bright sunlight.

"Captain Sinbad!"

As the call grew stronger, he forced himself to move, his limbs heavy like lead as he tried to lift himself up, his lungs burning as he breathed.

The storm…

"Captain!"

Feet thumped on the beach as he saw the sailor running towards him with wild relief, recognizing the man right away as he sank to his knees beside him.

"Jamil..." His voice was hoarse, raspy as sandpaper, his throat dry and aching.

"Oh, thank the gods you're alive!" The young sailor breathed, heaving from his sprint and helping him to a sitting position.

Sinbad rested on his knees, pausing a moment to assess any possible damage in his body, a quick mental survey of every limb and joint, but soon his mind raced ahead like a wild horse, fragmented memories falling into place in a disordered sequence as he remembered the fury of the ocean the night before. "What happened? Where are we?"

"I have no idea," Jamil shook his head cluelessly. "The ship went down. The storm-"

"Any sign of the others?" he questioned hurriedly, a sense of urgency shooting straight through his veins as he rose to stand. "My brother?"

"No, sir," Jamil shook his head again, regret filling his dark eyes as he steadied his captain on his feet. "I've been walking the beach for some time now and I haven't seen anyone. I'm sorry."

Sinbad's heart fell at the man's words, cracking in two. Everything was a confused mess inside his head, hazy and senseless, a black morass of lightening strikes, thunder claps and dark skies unleashing water and hell on his poor little ship. Surely the gods had spared more than just the two of them? Could they be so cruel as to steal his brother from him when he was the only family he had left?

He glanced around at the desolated beach and then at the thick row of trees guarding the inland side, lonely and silent except for the few chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind. Hope and despair claimed him at once, a great wave of sorrow washing over him as the events of the storm hit him like a forceful blow, the mast rupturing, his brother's call and the terror in his voice as he was swallowed by the sea. He'd had no other choice…And yet his brother may have perished with the ship despite the desperate decision he had made.

He shut his eyes close for a moment, too many feelings tossing within his core, his ribcage threatening to burst, unable to contain it all. "Maybe they washed up on shore somewhere else…" he murmured, clinging to hope as hard as he had clung to the mast the night before. His brother could not be gone. It was impossible.

"Aye," Jamil nodded in optimistic agreement, emboldened yet still careful, eying his captain as if afraid he may falter at any second and sink back in the sand either from exhaustion from the storm, or anguish at the loss of his ship and family.

But Sinbad straightened, spine and nerves turning to steel out of necessity. "Let's keep walking," he proposed resolutely, composing himself as much as he could for the young lad's sake, giving him a nod of reassurance and a pat on the back. "Perhaps they're searching for us as we speak."

Jamil nodded again with a timid smile that failed to mask the anguish hiding beneath, but together they toughened up and resumed their scour of the beach under the high noon sun, their clothes disheveled, their skin sun-burned, and their moods dangling from fragile threads.

Everything was white and empty, Sinbad noticed as they walked aimlessly, nothing but a few debris washed up on shore and scattered in the sand, split wood planks, tangles of ropes, shards of glass. He couldn't even tell if the strewn items belonged to his sunken ship, too damaged and undefined to clearly identify, so he focused ahead instead of on the ground, straining his eyes to spot any survivors that may be wobbling on the shore line in the distance but saw no one, only sand and water as far as he could see.

Only a few dozen steps had passed when a tingling sensation prickled the skin of his left wrist, a faint memory knocking at the door of his mind as he remembered when he'd last experienced the same discomfort, during the storm last night, when he was climbing the ratlines in the pouring rain.

He flexed his fingers and balled them into a fist momentarily, expecting it to dim and vanish, only it didn't. Instead, right when he went to inspect the annoying spot, the tingles abruptly turned to white hot embers, his skin burning like fire as if he'd stuck his hand into the flames of a forge. "What in the name of…" He quickly flicked his wrist in an attempt to rid himself of the sharp pain, and that's when he saw it, confusion immediately seeping into his blood with a sense of dread. A bracelet of rainbow colors clasped around his skin.

"What is it?" Jamil asked worriedly, startled by his captain's sudden curse until he too took note of the curious piece of jewelry for the first time.

"I don't think we're alone," Sinbad spoke ominously, fingers brushing on the bracelet while he glanced at their surroundings with caution. "This bracelet is not mine. Someone must have put it on while I was out."

"Who?" Jamil looked around as well, body tensing with suspicion like a prey stalked by a hunter.

"I don't know," he shook his head, while another wave of fiery tingles singed the flesh of his wrist. "What on earth…" he cursed again, this time clawing at the bracelet's clasps to remove it and flick his hand again, hoping to chase the nasty feeling away once and for all.

But Jamil caught his arm, eyes going wide. "Captain, look! By the spirits…"

He followed the sailor's gaze and saw what the man was so visibly upset about. A strange symbol inked on the inside of his wrist. A small fireball, no more than an inch in diameter, trapped within a tangle of complicated knots, and the small silhouette of a bird with outstretched wings soaring right through the flames, his little feathered shape easy to miss if one didn't look close enough at the vivid fire painted on his skin.

"That's a soul mark!" The young lad exclaimed.

"What?" Sinbad's initial reaction was to huff at the ludicrous notion, discarding it immediately as his rational mind took over. "Soul marks have been gone for hundreds of years, if they even existed at all. Whoever put this bracelet on me must have tattooed this at the same time."

"Sir, it doesn't look like a tattoo," Jamil protested politely, studying the mark with interest and pointing out the obvious. "It's much too detailed and delicate, with a special sort of lustre over it. Maybe we washed up on the island of a God? Maybe the storm was a-"

"Whatever _this_ is, we have more important things to worry about right now," Sinbad shook his head, refuting the over-productive imagination of his crewmate as he gently rubbed at the symbol inked in his flesh, attempting to remove it.

"You can't remove a soul mark, Captain," Jamil informed him knowingly as they resumed their walk on the beach.

Sinbad grimaced and lowered his hand, leaving the symbol alone as it simmered on his skin in an unpleasant warm tingle. Frustration suddenly blazed within him, licking at his bones like the flames now branded into his flesh, and he had to bite down the urge to scream, pressing his lips tightly together. What kind of wicked trick were the gods playing on him, he wondered, burdening him with such a mark less than a day after the ocean had swallowed his brother? Did they believe it was a fair trade? A fair compensation so he wouldn't drown in grief? He felt the sudden urge to punch something hard to release everything that was building up in his core, to lash out at the ocean with his fists if he could, the covetous thief who kept stealing everyone he cared about.

But his companion's musings plucked him out of his darkening thoughts.

"This mark belongs to a woman," Jamil said, genuinely curious and obviously more excited about the matter than he was. "Any idea who?"

"Someone who likes to play with fire?" Sinbad jested sarcastically, resisting the urge to glance at the mark again and pick out any clue it may contain, wondering despite himself about the hidden meaning behind the complicated knots and the tiny bird flying through the flames. "Someone who likes birds?"

"Perhaps," Jamil continued, surveying the row of trees for any sign of life as they walked the beach aimlessly, the waves crashing next to them under the glaring sunlight. "Those intricate knots around the fireball seem Celtic. Perhaps she lives North."

"Well, that's unfortunate," he replied with sarcasm once more, his tone turning rather bitter. "Seeing as I am currently without a ship to sail all the way up there, she better be patient."

"You never know, maybe _she_ will find you," Jamil smiled good-heartedly, then paused quietly, as if choosing his next words carefully. "Have you ever been in love, sir?"

The mark inked in his flesh burned at the man's words as if on command, like wind blowing on embers and sparking them into real flames. Sinbad grew silent and his eyes gravitated towards the ocean at once, his heart squeezing in his ribcage and swelling with something he couldn't quite name. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant and low, lost to fading memories. "I was engaged once, a very long time ago," he said, sorrow coating his words. "I cannot say if it was love, but I cared about her. A lot." His mind swirled with fragmented images of red curls and carefree laughter, rocks and boulders battered by waves, and anger swiftly returned to his core. He could still see her fall, his name on her lips as she screamed, that day he had failed and lost her, the innocence of childhood ripped away from him like a limb cut off his body.

He clenched his jaw and glared at the sea, immutably still and calm today beneath the clear blue sky, the debt still unpaid to this day, the price only doubled now that his brother was gone as well. "It doesn't matter now," he said darkly, his voice turning to a low growl as he defied whoever had dared paint such a thing on his skin. "My mistress is the ocean. I have no need for a bloody soul mark."

Then he put the rainbow bracelet back on his wrist, a tense edge to his movement as he clasped it back into place, hiding the symbol again out of sight and out of mind, and Jamil didn't dare speak in return, instead choosing to slip into a respectful silence.

But it was a short one for as the beach curved slightly in front of them, the man gasped in surprise. "Look!"

Sinbad followed where he was pointing in the distance, to a longboat drawn ashore by a group of what looked like six royal guards, whose outfits he immediately recognized with a breath of relief.

"Hey!" Jamil happily broke into a run, arms waving in the air as Sinbad trotted behind him to catch up, his damn wrist still tingling annoyingly like fire.

"Halt! Hands up where we can see them, pirate!" a guard shouted in warning, his companions instantly drawing out their spears, their silver tips glinting in the sunlight.

"What?" Jamil halted promptly, slowing with caution while his hands waved in pacifying movements. "No no no, we're sailors! We were caught in that storm last night! We-"

"Quiet!" A guard abruptly wacked the young lad across the face with the wooden end of his spear, sending him sprawling on the sand with a bruise on his jaw.

Sinbad slowed in his steps at once, a dangerous glare settling on his face as he felt the muscles in his body tense, readying for a fight. "You're making a mistake, sir," he addressed the one who appeared to be the leader of the small band. "My name is Sinbad and I sail under the protection of the Caliph of Bagdad."

"Sinbad the Sailor, right," the guard spat at his feet. "and I'm King Arthur."

His companions bellowed with throaty laughter as they hurled Jamil to his feet, the young man resisting and snarling at his captors. "He speaks the truth! He's Captain Sinbad, the Master of the Seven Seas and the Caliph will hear of this!"

"Oh I'm sure he will," the guard replied spitefully. "His son, Prince Casib, is the one who's ordered the cleansing of these shores from scums like you."

"But we're not pirates!" Jamil cried out as they threw him in the longboat to be tied up by two other brutes with cone-shaped helmets.

"You tell that to the Caliph, seadog," one of them barked, ramming his fist in the defenseless sailor's abdomen to silence him, his meaty hands then snatching a roll of rope to tie him up.

But the soldier had barely circled one loop around Jamil's wrists when Sinbad deftly dashed past the other guards and threw himself on him like a tiger, his fist colliding with the man's jaw to send him toppling out of the longboat head over feet in a tangle of sleek black cape while he kicked his companion in the chest and out of the longboat at the same time.

He then wasted no time and armed himself with one of the oars, flipping it around to wack another guard over the head and another in the groin as they attempted to board the longboat. For a moment he maintained the upper hand, blocking spears and swords as the guards circled him, spatting curses and insults his way as they attempted to disarm him, but soon enough all six of them were back on their feet, faces red with anger and he knew the odds were about to turn.

"Look out!" Jamil shouted in warning, but too late.

Sinbad barely had time to wheel around on his feet when the paddle of the other oar caught him square below the eye, his vision blurring and going black like a moonless night.

* * *

She was dozing off, her eyelids heavy like lead while the pops and crackles of the campfire lulled her to sleep like a lullaby. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders a little bit tighter against the cool night air and finally resigned herself to sleep, the map resting in her lap long forgotten as her mind had wandered off aimlessly, jumping from one fickle thought to the next.

The past few weeks had been utterly exhausting, covering miles after miles of lands, forests and mountains every single day, galloping on horseback, trekking by foot or sailing across bays and rivers by boat, the first part of her journey finally achieved now that she had at last stepped foot on the continent next to her homeland, ready to march onward all the way East until she reached what she sought, or rather _who_.

She had barely ever stopped to eat, wash and sleep since she had left Eire and she wasn't about to slow down now, her mind fervently set on her mission like a mighty anchor set to a ship, her resolve and determination ever growing stronger with every step she took, the sweet taste of revenge still distant but nonetheless inching closer and closer.

A few more months and she would have a powerful teacher, her magic would grow in strength and control, and she would claim her vengeance upon the witch who had destroyed her home and her life, thus breaking the terrible curse that enslaved her brother to the body of a hawk.

Maeve lifted her gaze up and wondered where he had flown off to, probably enjoying the freedom of a smooth flight under the veil of the stars, somewhere beyond the canopy of leaves above her head. The forest they were currently crossing was beautiful, luscious and blooming during the day, but rapidly became eerie and spooky during the night, which is why she had chosen a secure spot to camp, against the facade of a rock cliff with only one front to guard in the darkness, her back protected by the mighty stones.

Discarding the map from her lap, rolling it back into a scroll in her backpack, she decided it was no use fighting off sleep anymore. She tossed another log into the fire and settled on her bedroll, her limbs heavy like lead, but her head had no sooner laid on her arm that a rustling sound rang in the evening air, just a few yards in front of her in the bushes.

All traces of sleep vanished in an instant, her eyes going wide and scrutinizing the darkness like an owl, her breath locked in her chest and her ears alert to any sign of movement. When the rustling happened again, this time accompanied by footsteps crunching dry leaves much closer to her campsite, she rose from her spot as slowly as a cat ready to bolt, her fingers curling around the hilt of her sword, ready for a fight.

Soon the bushes moved again, branches rustling and snapping, disturbed by whatever was lurking in the shadows. She expected to meet the snarling fangs of a wolf but the face that emerged from the darkness was unexpectedly familiar, a ghost from the past she had left behind many weeks ago and that she thought she would never see again.

But there he stood, tall and strong and rooted in place by the shock of reckoning, his brown eyes as wide as hers and glinting in the firelight, his features caring and gentle just as she remembered them, yet now marred by a scar on his right temple, a token from the raid.

"Derrick?" she breathed, a mixture of surprise and complete shock freezing her in place as her nerves slowly uncoiled from her previous spike of fear. "You scared me half to death."

"I can see that," he replied, eyes darting to the blade in her hand, a small smile hanging from his lips. "Forgive me."

"What are you doing here?" she quickly demanded, her sword lowering in relief that he was no foe, yet disbelief still clouding her thoughts like a dark ominous storm. He wasn't supposed to be here. "Did you follow me?"

"I did," he admitted instantly, truthful and shameless, the honesty in his voice almost knocking her over.

"Why?"

"I could ask you the same question." His tone rang with accusation, a small bite crunching every word as he looked her over intently with a deep sorrow burrowed in the depth of his gaze. "Why did you leave?"

Maeve watched him silently, guilt clamping her throat as she tried to find the words that wouldn't cut him deeper. "I had no reason to stay," she finally said, as clear as the night sky above their heads beyond the canopy of leaves, and she held his gaze with all the courage she could muster. "I'm sorry."

He remained silent, watching her from where he stood, his shoulders slightly falling in disappointment but he quickly squared them back into steel. "You're lying," he challenged after a moment, not believing her and risking a step closer.

"Derrick, please," she pleaded tiredly, this time refusing to meet the sorrow in his eyes so she turned back to the campfire to sit down and stoke the logs, her mind racing away like a wild horse not to reveal anything about her brother, praying to the spirits Derrick wouldn't inquire about him. Did he think him dead? Had he seen the curse as it was cast upon him because of her? It couldn't be, otherwise he would know the reason she had left… "I believe you wasted a trip-"

"I didn't," he cut her off, voice sharp and serious. "I want you to hear me out." He closed the distance resolutely and kneeled before her across the crackling fire, his dark eyes blazing in the flames like obsidians, demanding explanations. "I've been trying to understand for the past five weeks, but no matter how many times I look back at what happened, it just doesn't make any sense." He shook his head in quiet frustration, his gaze suddenly darkening with the same cruel demons she battled with every night in her nightmares. "I lost my family, too, you know. I lost my father and my sisters to those monsters. I lost my home just like you. Everyone in the village suffered a great deal, yet we _stayed_." He stared at her, battling the emotions that were piling in his throat as he clung to his composure. "We stayed, banded together and rebuilt, mending the broken pieces of our lives, trying to fill the void left by those who died that day. But you…" He trailed off, looking her over as if she was a stranger, a great mystery he thought he had once solved but now only realized he had never decrypted at all. "You lost everything and ran away the next day. Why?" He asked, seconds dripping away as he silently swallowed his broken pride and dared her to lie or dismiss him again, pleading for an explanation, an apology, anything she could give him as he asked once more. "_Why_? I've been chasing you for the past five weeks. You owe me an answer."

The silence that settled over them was so heavy and loaded Maeve thought it would crush them and grind them to dust right then and there. Words faded in the night like shadows as she was powerless to give him what he wanted, what he had traveled so far to retrieve and bring back with him. Her voice got trapped within her lungs, yet after a few endless seconds she somehow managed to find the strength to utter the answer he didn't want to hear. "I'm not going back."

He closed his eyes painfully, his features twisting with sorrow. "That's not what I asked."

"But it's what you're hoping for," she replied truthfully, exposing the reason for his presence before her tonight, knelt in front of her campfire with hope filling his eyes. "Why else would you have traveled all this way?"

"Because I love you," he abruptly declared, passion soaking his voice with determination and faith. "Because I care for you, and I know there was a time where you loved me too."

She fell quiet at his declaration, struggling to hold the weight of feelings that flared in his beautiful brown eyes while shame and guilt gripped her heart like sharp claws digging into her chest, the soul mark below her collarbone suddenly prickling like ice, frosting her skin like a distant warning.

Everything between Derrick and her had only ever been rooted in nothing more than a contract uniting two families, their relationship cordial and respectful, friendly and sweet. But she had never loved him. Perhaps she would have with time, or had the raid not befallen their village and the gods not branded her with a mark, but she couldn't turn back time now. Their lives had taken separate paths, and it was too late for her to share his.

"You're wrong, I never had any feelings for you," she replied regretfully at last, unable to reciprocate the love he held for her and which she had failed to see all these years.

He stared at her, like a small bird caught in a strong gust of wind, lost and falling into a bottomless hole where she couldn't catch him, cruel understanding clouding his gaze and breaking his voice. "I have no one left but you, please," he pleaded again, scooting closer around the campfire and reaching to hold her hand, desperate to rekindle the connection they once shared.

Maeve allowed him to do so, saddened by the rejection she was inflicting upon him while the mark on her left shoulder continued to freeze over. She knew there was nothing she could say to ease his pain, but perhaps she could help him understand...

Slipping her hand gently out of his grasp, she lifted it to her dress and pulled the fabric down, only enough to expose the flesh below her left collarbone.

Derrick's eyes fell on the soul mark, the sight of it stealing his breath away like a thief, rendering him speechless for a long moment, after which he tentatively found his voice again, trembling like a leaf in winter. "Is that…"

"A soul mark," she finished for him, pained by the deep sadness that was slowly creasing his tortured features. "And it's not yours."

He stared at her flesh and his face lost all its colors as if she had struck him, the intensity of his gaze digging a painful hole in her shoulder where the mark was biting into her skin like spears of ice. His dark brown eyes soaked with immense sorrow and heartache, like flames abruptly doused by cold water.

"All this time…" he whispered in the night with disbelief, a new realization slowly settling over him.

"No," she assured him quickly. "It only appeared the morning after the raid."

But he shook his head in incredulity, a new kind of fire filling his voice, dark and dangerous as he stood up by the campfire to tower over her and stare at her as if she was a complete stranger, a stranger who had betrayed him and stabbed him in the back. "All this time, you knew and you played me for a fool?"

"What? Of course not! I knew nothing-" She rose to her feet to face him but in the blink of an eye his hand had fisted over her throat and he was slamming her against the rocky facade of the cliff behind her, the force of the push nearly knocking the wind out of her lungs.

White hot fear spread into her veins like liquid fire, survival instincts urging her to take action and retaliate at once to protect herself, but instead of fighting back and worsening his outburst of fury she chose to remain frozen, her only act of defiance being her fiery eyes holding his incensed gaze as he glared and growled into her face. "And the first chance you got you ran away like a thief, is that it?!"

She returned his glare, remaining as still as the cold hard stone behind her as she waited for him to calm down, or else she would teach him a serious lesson never to raise a hand against her ever again unless he wanted to lose it.

But if he wanted to hurt her any further he had no time to proceed, nor did she had time to push him off of her because at that moment a flutter of wings swiftly swept over them and collided with his head, sharp talons digging into his flesh while he jerked backwards at once to shield his face and cry out in pain.

Released from his iron grip on her throat, Maeve finally breathed properly and watched as Dermott assailed him a few seconds longer before flying off to perch on a rock right next to her head, a sorceress with her protective familiar standing guard over her.

Wiping blood from the few gashes on his face, he tossed her a horrified look, as if realizing with dread what he had just done. "Maeve…I didn't…" he stuttered, his eyes wide with fear and shock. "I didn't mean-"

"I think you'd better leave," she commanded, her eyes as hard as steel and painstakingly unforgiving. "_Now_."

Silence engulfed them both like a cloak, heavy and tense, and he knew he would never get a second chance ever again, the only one he'd had now tossed away uselessly after five weeks of chasing after her.

They looked at each other across the campfire, the flames dancing between them like an impenetrable barrier, and Maeve saw the defeat and acceptance flood his features as he gave an imperceptible nod and finally turned away, his tall solid frame fading into the shadows of the forest whence he came, now forced to embark on his journey home empty handed.

After a moment, when she couldn't hear his retreating footsteps anymore, she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, the tension in her shoulders slacking, and she sat back down in front of the campfire, her gaze staring into nothing.

"_Are you alright?"_ Dermott asked with concern as he landed on a nearby stump.

She nodded in reassurance, though words remained stuck on her tongue.

"_I'm glad you didn't stay in Eire after all,"_ he jested with a flap of his wings.

She laughed this time, good-heartedly, out loud, liberating. "Don't worry, I would have put him back in his place," she assured her brother, knowing pretty well that if Derrick had ever been violent with her had she stayed in Eire and had they wed, she would have taught him a serious lesson and ended the marriage at once, exposing his explosive behaviour to the entire clan.

They both fell silent then, the quiet noises of the dark forest filling the space between them, a chorus of buzzing bugs, small animals scurrying into their lair and birds chirping sleepily on distant branches.

As she lost herself in thoughts of her homeland and the kingdoms awaiting her in the East, her hand absent-mindedly travelled up to the mark inked into her flesh below her left collarbone, how the mere sight of it had infuriated Derrick in such a possessive way she never would have suspected given his gentle disposure, one he must have fashioned perfectly all those years to hide his real nature.

After a few quiet moments, the icy sensation in her skin receded under her gentle circular rubs, but the small gesture wasn't lost on Dermott.

"_I know you don't want to talk about it,"_ he began tentatively, _"but since you seem to believe it after all, who do you think the mark belongs to?"_

Maeve let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair as she was unable to rein in her thoughts from pondering on the same question, but her guesses came out sarcastically despite her best attempts. "I don't know…" she mused tiredly. "It's a wave. Perhaps a fisherman, a sailor…Better yet, why not a pirate?"

"_I doubt it,"_ her brother protested, genuinely intrigued by the mark branded into her skin. _"I wonder what the rainbow around it means."_

"A pirate leprechaun?" she quipped again.

Dermott flapped his wings in slight annoyance. _"This is a mark from the Gods, perhaps the first in a thousand years. Aren't you even the least bit intrigued?"_

"Of course, I am," Maeve admitted, yet not without an angry bite in her words as emotions rose inside her. "But what do you expect me to do with it? We have a curse to break. I don't have time to search for the man whose mark the bloody Gods branded me with. I have nothing to offer him anyway, except the pursuit of the murderous witch who destroyed our lives."

Dermott fell silent at her little outburst, respecting her fears and concerns about her current predicament, and his voice rang softer, an attempt to soothe her worries. _"I don't think the Gods chose you lightly, Maeve, nor the man who bears your mark somewhere out there. Something special, _fated_, is at work here."_

Unfortunately, his words failed to lift up her spirit. "I don't believe in fate anymore," she replied sadly, her eyes losing focus on the campfire, the flames flickering in the darkness like hidden demons ready to snatch her. Only time would tell if she would ever defeat them.

* * *

"Welcome back."

The voice echoed in his ears, close and familiar, but when he tried to open his eyes a splitting headache instantly pulsed in his temples, especially under his right eye where he could tell the skin was bruised and tenderly swollen. He groaned, forcing his eyelids open to assess his surrounding, needing only a few seconds to realize that he was in the belly of a ship, the hull swaying calmly beneath him and whiffs of salted air drifting in from the open hatches above him.

He was sitting against a wall with his head resting back against the hard wood planks, his faithful crewmate sitting right beside him in the darkness, and luckily in much better shape than he was as he recalled the origin of the bruise beneath his eye, curtesy of their benevolent captors...royal guards...

"Where are we headed?" he asked, hoping Jamil might have snatched the answer while he was out cold.

"On our way to Bagdad, I believe," the young sailor replied, disenchanted. "Branded as pirates and ready to be imprisoned until we meet the hangman's noose. We do have a couple of stops to make before we reach the city though, other pirates and criminals to arrest in the great cleansing of the kingdom's shores."

"Wonderful," Sinbad scowled with sarcasm, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position and noticing the iron shackles around his ankles. "Everything just keeps getting better and better."

"The Caliph won't let this happen," Jamil replied fervently, hope and anger laced in his voice.

"I certainly hope not," he agreed with his companion while peeking in the darkness of the cargo hold to spot other sailors just like them, shackled in irons, looking frail and afraid and trembling like leaves. Something was clearly wrong. "But this isn't the Caliph's doing," he observed. "It's the Prince. Something must have happened to stir him into this pirate hunt."

"Perhaps…" Jamil's words trailed off, confused and weary.

They both fell quiet then, contemplating their current predicament and how to possibly escape it. Sinbad inspected the shackles around his ankles, finding them tight and strong, refusing to pry open with simple force. The absence of keyholes also told him their captors had bolted the shackles in place and the only way to remove them was probably in a blacksmith's forge.

"It's no use, Captain," Jamil shook his head defeatedly. "I've already tried everything to remove them. Nothing works."

Sinbad sat back against the wall, shoulders slumping in quiet frustration as he wished his beloved brother were by his side. He had no doubt his herculean strength would have snapped their bonds like twigs in a matter of seconds.

He closed his eyes as grief suddenly threatened to swallow him whole like a monstrous wave, the terrible storm flashing in his mind like a wicked nightmare.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Jamil spoke softly, compassionately, as if he'd read his captain's thoughts.

Sinbad smile gratefully and squeezed the young man's shoulder in encouragement not to lose hope, even though he himself was barely clinging to it as it was. "He's still alive, I know it. He's out there, somewhere."

"Better than locked up in here, hopefully," the lad replied, eying their little prison with disdain.

_Better than dead_, Sinbad thought, the pain of grief licking at his bones. _Anything but dead_. But he shook the upsetting notion away, afraid he might breathe life into it like embers sparked by the wind if he thought about it too much. His brother was alive. It was the only truth he wanted to believe. They only needed to find their way back to one another. They always did.

Wincing in discomfort, he brought his fingers to his face, carefully touching the swollen skin beneath his right eye to assess the damage, but the bruise quickly faded from his mind when his gaze fell on the rainbow bracelet at his wrist, and what lay hidden beneath…

Without thinking, he unclasped it and removed the mysterious piece of jewelry to expose the mark inked into his flesh on the inside of his wrist, the fireball burning within a circle of tangled knots, which might be of Celtic origin according to Jamil.

He ran a thumb over the delicate flames, wondering once again why he had been branded in such a way, a blessing and a curse at the same time.

"So what else do you know about soul marks?" he asked his companion, finally admitting to himself that he did want some answers after all.

Jamil's head snapped to the side and he stared at his captain, both surprised and grateful at this change of heart concerning this delicate issue, even if his knowledge was much more limited than he may have wished it to be. "Not much," he admitted honestly. "aside from what my sister told me when we were children, from the books she read. She was obsessed with soul marks, praying to be granted one someday."

"So how does it work?" Sinbad asked, growing more and more intrigued by the precious filigree painted on his skin. "There's a woman out there with this mark and I'm just supposed to find her?"

"Well, no, not this mark," Jamil corrected. "You bear the mark that belongs to her while she bears yours, a different one that hints at who you might be, like a ship for example."

Sinbad nearly shivered at the thought that a woman out there in the world, perhaps all the way North, a complete stranger, bore a symbol magically inked in her skin just like him, a symbol that represented who he was and that she too was probably clueless and terrified to be branded in such an ancient and mythical way.

"How are we supposed to know who the other person is?" he wondered, his practical side surfacing. "I may walk right past her in the street and never know. It's not like these marks are inked onto our foreheads and easy to spot…"

"My sister used to say that soul marks react to one another in some way, like an itch or a tingle, and that the people just…_know_." Jamil said, unable to explain the process any further. "Do you feel anything?"

"It just feels…warm," he said, at a loss of words to describe the other array of peculiar, sometimes painful sensations he had experienced since the night of the storm, from tingles to needles to warmth to scorching fire. At least now it seemed to have calmed to a pleasant heat, distant and somehow comforting.

"This is a blessing, Captain," Jamil pressed on, praising the magical symbol. "A great gift from the Gods."

"I doubt it," Sinbad shook his head, his doubts weighting much heavier than his faith in whatever spirits had chosen him or whatever gods had deemed him deserving to have such a symbol inked into his flesh, to be linked to another human being so intimately, to be granted something as magical as a soulmate, something plucked straight out of a fairy tale.

He rubbed his thumb gently over the flames painted on his skin, marvelling quietly at the faint warmth that seemed to be emanating from them the more he tried to picture the woman who belonged to him, just as he belonged to her. Why the flames? Was she the daughter of a blacksmith? The priestess of some fiery god? And why the bird soaring through the fire?

His headache was slowly returning with a vengeance the more he tried to decipher the symbol on his wrist. He had no idea who she could be, and it was strange to think that somehow they had both been fashioned for each other all this time while living worlds apart.

But the mystery around her identity mattered little, he realized, his thoughts darkening like stormy clouds. Perhaps a few years ago the thought of a soul mark might have filled him with the wild urgency to find this rare woman at once, to travel full sails all the way North and search every nook and cranny of the land until he found her at last, but now… Now the prospect of ever meeting this woman filled him with bitterness and a bite of shame.

He shook his head regretfully, finding his voice again. "It might be a blessing for me, but it would not be so for her," he declared somberly, eyes staring straight at the burning flames on his wrist. "I'm a sailor soon to be imprisoned for piracy and sentenced to death. I have no ship, no wealth, no land. I would have nothing to give her."

That was the truth. This mark had appeared on his flesh at the worst possible time. What if she thought him to be a prince or some valiant knight, brave and rich and dashing? What would she think if she met him right this instant, locked in the belly of a ship like some lowly criminal? He could not bear to see the crushing look of disappointment in her eyes.

No. As it was, he would probably die never knowing her name, and that was alright. When he reached Bagdad in a few weeks, he would die with her soul inked in his blood, nothing more, nothing less.

* * *

**To be continued**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone!**

**FINALLY, here is Part II of _Ink In My Blood_! Yay!**

**These are dark times in the world right now and I pray that you and all your loved ones are healthy and safe. I wish I had more time to update all my stories, but unfortunately, being a health care provider, I am still working full time during this pandemic so finding the time to write and edit is quite difficult. :(**

**But here is the next installment of _Ink In My Blood_. Hopefully it can lighten up your quarantine a little bit. :) Oh and four new chapters of _Touch of Destiny_ will soon be up as well! *fingers crossed***

**Enjoy, and stay safe.**

**xoxox**

* * *

**Part II**

Maeve didn't have enough eyes to take in every shape, color, sound and smell that were swirling like a maelstrom of tumultuous waves all around her. Everything was so foreign it felt like she was walking in a dream that was not her own. Draperies of vibrant colors hung on every balcony, their vivid tones contrasting with the immaculate white of the square-shaped buildings, mouth-watering spices drafted through every street she strolled on, and entertainers of every kind performed in the market square, enchanting snakes with their flutes or spitting fire with their mouths.

Even the people were so very different compared to the grumpy Northern clansmen she was used to spending her days with in the cold of Eire, where earthly colors were usually the norm as well as trousers, especially for the men. But here, everything was bathed in fancy colors and flowery linens and silks, with scarves and turbans protecting heads against the drumming heat of the high noon sun. Every sight before her was simply enchanting, depicting a way of life that was as foreign as it was fascinating.

She'd never seen anything like the city of Bagdad in her life, also known as the jewel of the East. Nothing could compare to stepping into its oriental world, no matter how well the books had described it when she was young, so she allowed herself a few minutes to drink it all in, eyes wide in wonder while Dermott happily commented on everything they saw, perched on her gloved arm. They passed booths and stalls selling more things than she could count, jugglers and belly dancers eliciting claps and gasps from small enraptured crowds, while masses of civilians leisurely navigated through it all.

Under different circumstances she would have easily spent hours discovering every marvel the city had to offer, losing herself in its mazes of streets and all the lively attractions, but she had a mission to accomplish and she refused to let it wait any longer, not after all the distance she had covered in the last couple of months and during which her brother had been trapped in the body of a hawk. She had come this far, she had to find _him_.

Asking for directions proved fruitful as everyone seemed to know the man she was seeking, bright smiles lighting their faces every time she uttered his name, and after many turns up and down numerous alleys buzzing with activity, she finally reached the outer edge of the city that stood by the sea, in a much quieter neighborhood that was more residential than commercial. A few additional turns and she reached a secluded corner, where she found the villa she was looking for, with its gleaming white walls and beautiful rose gardens welcoming her as soon as she stepped through the enchanting pergola. A stone path then led to a large front porch adorned with a small table and two cushioned chairs; a cozy nook to enjoy a night cap and a good book, she thought enviously.

The house that stood before her was simply magnificent, to say nothing of its perfect location and its impeccable maintenance, and the sound of the distant waves coupled with the sweet floral scent of the roses made for the perfect fairy tale retreat, filled with magic and peace. It was so enchanting that she had to pause on the porch for a moment, breathing in the roses and glancing at the calm ocean in the distance, giving herself a few seconds to day-dream on what her life could never be. If she lived in such a wonderful place, she would surely never want to leave and spend all her time reading on the porch.

But she tossed those impossible dreams aside and finally turned to the door, glancing at Dermott perched on her arm as she gathered her courage.

"This is it," she declared, readying herself for the encounter she had been hoping for all those past long months.

She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock, her knuckles inches from the wood when suddenly the door flew open with a woosh and an old man in white robes beamed at her, with a small turban wrapped around his head and a white neatly trimmed beard framing his warm face.

"Ah welcome, my dear!" he greeted good-heartedly, his bright smile wrinkling the corner of his small blue eyes. "Quick, come on in!"

"Wha-" Before she could even utter a word, his hand flew out and he gently grabbed her arm to beckon her inside his home, the door hastily closing behind her.

"You're right on time!" he observed excitedly, yet with a faint note of urgency.

"On time for what?" Maeve asked, almost stuttering as she frowned in confusion, Dermott squawking on her arm with equal puzzlement.

But the old man's mind was apparently so busy with pressing matters that he ignored her question, leading her deeper into his flowering villa while he continued to jabber onward. "I had hoped we could visit the Caliph together, but I must hurry to the port and-"

"Wait," she raised her hand to halt his incessant moving, hoping to keep him still to clarify the one thing she wasn't even certain of yet. "Are you Master Dim-Dim?"

The old man turned to face her and grinned like a cat. "In the flesh," he said cunningly. "And you must be Maeve."

She narrowed her eyes immediately, mistrust shooting down her veins in warning as she resisted the urge to take a step back. "How do you know my name?"

He merely winked at her, wriggling a witty finger in admonishment. "A wizard always knows who knocks at his front door. And I know the reason that brought you here, too, which is why we must hurry."

"Hurry?" she echoed, again following him as he disappeared into an adjacent room filled with books and maps and potions of all sorts. "Why? Where?"

"I must go to the port to secure us a ship and a crew," he explained while hastily filling up two satchels with numerous books, his voice filling with urgency. "and you need to go to the palace to petition for the release of two important prisoners."

"Excuse me?" She stared at him, affronted, her confusion growing with every second that flew by. "You want me to do what?"

"Here," he thrust a parchment in her hand, oblivious to her rising distress and puzzlement. "With this scroll bearing my seal, you should have no problem getting an audience with the Caliph and bring his idiot of a son to reason."

Maeve blinked at him, at a complete loss. This was definitely not how she had envisioned her first meeting with the most powerful wizard of the East. He was speaking in riddles with such urgency and seriousness that words were pouring out of his mouth as if time itself was slipping through his fingers. An audience with the Caliph? Releasing prisoners? What on earth was he talking about?

"What does this have to do with why I'm here?" she asked, her restraint over her temper slipping away by the second.

"This has _everything_ to do with why you're here, my dear," he declared gravely. "I'll explain everything in due time, but we need to go _now_."

She opened her mouth to speak, a thousand questions colliding in her head, but he was already pressing on, urging for their immediate departure as he hoisted his heavy bags on his shoulders, once again absolutely oblivious to the expression of sheer bafflement on her face as he dashed past her in the hallway to reach the front door. "I'm afraid we don't have much time left and-"

"Stop," she snapped, her irritation finally reaching its peak like the crack of a whip in a silent room. He halted at once, his hand curling on a long mighty wizard staff resting in a corner, and his small wrinkled gaze landed on her, wise and knowing. She held it firmly, pausing for good measure, and when she was certain she had his full attention at last, she took a careful step in his direction and spoke slowly, anger simmering in her words like dangerous embers. "I came all the way from Eire, from the North, to find you. For six months I've traveled by land, water, desert, to seek your teachings and-"

"-to defeat the witch who cursed your brother into a hawk," he finished for her, simple words spoken with utter calm and disconcerting knowledge, his blue eyes lowering on her brother perched on her gloved arm. "You must be Dermott."

A gust of wind could have knocked her over as she stared at him, her jaw slacking with quiet shock while her entire body shivered with the unpleasant feeling of being stripped raw, her deepest secrets torn from her skin and exposed for everyone to see.

"How could you possibly know all that?" she breathed, feeling herself shrink before him like a mouse, gripped by a curious blend of admiration and terror as she wondered just how powerful the wizard before her truly was, and how potentially dangerous he could be.

He turned to fully face her, a fond smile stretching his lips like a doting grandfather attempting to sooth a child, the urgency that seemed to radiate from him quieting down for a bit. "I know a lot of things, Maeve. That is my gift," he explained softly, heaving a small sigh as he sadly added, "and that is my curse."

She blinked at him, a stroke of empathy briefly brushing within her as she wondered about the meaning behind his words, but it quickly faded away as her mind latched onto the real, formidable extent of everything he might truly know; the deadly raid on her village, her brother's curse, all the heartache and all the miles of travel...It was a violation of her privacy, an invasion of her personal history which was solely hers to tell and share, and it made her blood boil. All she wanted was his help, not embark on some stupid mission that would be of no benefit to her whatsoever.

Struggling to rein in her rising temper, she took another step closer and nearly hissed at him like a snake. "That may be so, but I did not come all this way to plead for the release of two criminals on behalf of a man I don't even know, wizard or not," she warned him, her voice dripping with venom. "I will not do your bidding like some servant girl in exchange for your teachings so if you-"

"Turok and Rumina are on the Isle of Tears about two weeks East from here," he revealed somberly, his tone grave and serious and nearly knocking her over like a fist in the gut.

The air left her lungs and she almost chocked, not believing her ears, and for a moment all traces of amiability vanished form his kind features, leaving nothing but lines and creases of deep concern, and this time he was the one to take a step forward intimidatingly, almost daring her to decline this golden opportunity. "I will teach you how to use your powers, and you will get your shot at breaking the curse on your brother, _but first_," he paused, emphasising the importance of her trip to the palace. "I need you to give this scroll to the Caliph and help me rescue those two prisoners, for the good of the realm."

He waited a bit, letting his words sink in properly like pebbles thrown into a stream, hitting rock bottom, before he turned around and aimed for the door once more, as if confident she would follow.

"Why?" she asked, still deeply annoyed. "Who are they? Wizards like you?"

He laughed at her question, grinning in amusement. "Hardly." She expected him to continue but instead he simply opened the door and looked at her expectantly, his wizard staff almost a head taller than him. "Shall we?"

Maeve glanced at the doorway, weighting his words like foreign gifts and unsure whether they contained real commitment or empty promises. It was certainly a risk to take, to trust this man she barely knew, but could she really afford _not_ to take it? Could she really pass on this opportunity? Her brother's life was at stake and she had sworn to avenge and free him. Now could be her chance, if she was brave enough to claim it.

But everything felt so soon, _too_ soon, like an unexpected gust of wind igniting a fire she could not control, and it sparked a fear within her that suddenly clutched her heart tight like a fist. She had expected to spend quite a lot of time learning about magic, reading books and mixing potions and training to control her powers, for weeks and months if necessary until she was strong enough to confront and fight a fully-fledged sorceress like Rumina; she had definitely _not_ expected to arrive at this famous wizard's doorstep and immediately be whisked away on some adventure to defeat her nemesis.

But she couldn't possibly turn back now…If there was even the slightest chance that she and this strange old wizard might defeat the monsters who had destroyed her life and cursed her brother, she had to take it. She would never forgive herself if she didn't.

Thus, she let her blood run like liquid steel, swallowed past the fear rising in her throat and gripped the scroll harder in her hand. "Fine." She agreed resolutely and finally walked out of the villa, Master Dim-Dim following behind her to head to the bustling port while she headed for the royal palace, wondering how in the bloody hell she was going to get an audience with the Caliph of Bagdad.

* * *

As soon as the metal door grinded open, he felt the unforgiving dampness and the biting cold clamp around his bones like prickly vines and the darkness swallow his senses like a shroud, while the two guards pulled him down the stone steps and nearly spit in his face in disdain.

"This is your new home, beggar," one of them snarled, introducing him to the palace's prison.

"It definitely could use a little sprucing up, or a few plants perhaps," he jested, unable to stop himself as anguish silently gripped him in an iron fist.

"Don't you worry about it," the other guard replied with ominous scorn. "Your stay with us will be very short."

Then they unceremoniously shoved him down the rest of the stairs, his spine painfully twisting as he fell against the cold hard stone, the last sliver of light vanishing as soon as the metal door shut close, leaving nothing but a few feeble lanterns to light the filthy dungeon and its frail inhabitants.

He stood up painstakingly, his entire body protesting with the movement, and before he could even take a step to access his cold surrounding a nosy hand grabbed his left wrist, prying for his bracelet. In a flash he immediately yanked his arm away and sharply pushed at the man with a warning. "Hands off!"

The frail prisoner scurried away in the dark fearfully, while Sinbad checked his wrist to make sure the bracelet was still secured in place, the last and only prized possession he owned along with the clothes on his back. He had nothing else, literally, expect his life. He had even come dangerously close to losing his hand while he rotted in the belly of the royal ship on the high seas, when his captors insisted on appropriating the piece of jewelry to sell it at a high price, but strangely enough no one had been able to remove it, no matter how hard they tried to tear it off his arm or how many sharp blades they had used to pry it loose.

Apparently, no one but him could unclasp it, another mystery added to this curious trinket, and since he had stubbornly refused to collaborate with his captors every step of the way, one of them had eventually suggested that they cut off his hand. Panic had spread into his veins like a wild hot fever and it had taken every shred of strength he possessed to fight them off and rapidly convince them that he would be of more use to them with his two hands on their ship rather than as a crippled body locked in the cargo hold. They had at last reluctantly agreed after endless minutes of negotiating, but not without giving him a proper beating that had left him sore and bruised for weeks.

He shook the painful memories aside, rubbing his left wrist out of instinct as he took a few tentative steps in the dim prison, dank and cold like death, with trembling bodies huddled in corners or shackled upright on the stone walls, hanging lifelessly except for a few occasional whimpers of misery.

The sight horrified him and filled him with anguish and dread, the smell of human decay assailing his nose like smothering smoke. If he had to choose, he'd much prefer a quick death at the gallows tomorrow rather than be left to die slowly of starvation in the palace dungeon like a miserable rat, charged with a crime he had not committed, an honest sailor turned into a trespassing pirate in the very kingdom he belonged to.

He wandered deeper in the prison, through the sobs and coughs and wails of despair, searching for a free slab of stone to sit and lean into, to rest his legs and close his eyes and perhaps never wake up again from this dejected nightmare, when his name echoed in the darkness.

"Sinbad?"

His head whipped around, his eyes going wide and his heartbeat flaring up like thunder as he tried to locate the small, croaky voice laced with hope. He knew that voice. Or perhaps he was going mad, his ears and mind tricking him like a wicked ghost?

"By the gods…" the voice sounded again, this time louder, stronger. "Little Brother, is that you?"

The clinking of chains rang in the putrid air, the shape of a man emerging from the shadows like a spirit returning from the dead, and he nearly choked on the sob that locked in his throat.

"Doubar…" he whispered, strangled by the tidal wave of impossible emotions that crashed over him, reality fragmenting around him like broken glass.

"The spirits be blessed!" Doubar roared and charged towards him, Sinbad meeting him halfway and welcoming the bear-hug that completely engulfed him and that lifted him clear off the ground.

Shameless tears stung his eyes while the widest of smiles spread on his lips. Pure, immense joy exploded in his chest at this unexpected reunion, his long-lost brother alive and returned to him by some heavenly miracle, plucked from the raging ocean of the storm that had stolen him away so long ago. He had never fully lost hope of seeing him again, refusing to ever let go, but the past daunting weeks had certainly worn down his expectations and optimism, like an old coin eroded at the edges.

But now he was here. Flesh and bone before him.

"I thought you were dead!" Doubar exclaimed, tears streaming down his face and into his heavy beard as he finally loosened his mighty grip on him, pausing only a few seconds before assessing him all over from head to toe like a worried parent with a toddler, his protective nature scanning for any wound or bruise.

"I thought the same about you!" Sinbad replied, forcing the words past the lump of raw emotions still lodged in his throat as he squeezed his brother's broad shoulders, relying on touch to convince himself he was truly real and alive.

"It's been six months!" His brother exclaimed again with disbelief. "Where have you been? What happened?"

Sinbad had to force his composure back into place before he could properly speak, the wheels in his head slowly creaking back into motion and past the current exhilaration that was pumping through his blood. "Jamil and I washed up on the shore of a small island after the storm, and we were captured by royal guards scouring the ocean for pirates. They locked us up then continued sailing south to do some more arresting, and when the cargo hold was full, they headed back here. I've been at sea all this time."

"Where's Jamil?" Doubar asked, looking around and noticing the young sailor's absence.

Sinbad shook his head regretfully, his thoughts painfully shifting to memories of his faithful companion, fallen at sea. "Sickness spread on the ship about six weeks ago. He was infected and they had to…" His voice nearly cracked with grief. "I couldn't save him."

His brother's bushy brow drew down in mourning. "There's nothing you could have done," he spoke softly, his meaty hand squeezing his shoulder in comfort. "He was a good lad."

Sinbad nodded, thinking back to his lively and good-hearted crewmate, the sorrow of his loss still weighting heavily on his heart. He should have better protected him, he thought miserably, as was his job as Captain, not condemn the poor lad to perish at sea in a wild storm or succumb to sickness, branded as a criminal in the belly of a ship.

He rubbed a hand wearily on his face, hoping to tame the guilt that tugged at his gut, when he felt the growing stubble on his jawline and his brother's previous words echoed in his head. "Six months…" he uttered, his mind attempting to calculate all the days and weeks that had gone by since the storm. "That long?"

"Aye," Doubar confirmed, the chains locked around his wrist clinking in the dark as he shifted on his feet.

"What about you?" Sinbad inquired. "How did you end up here?"

"Pretty much the same as you," Doubar merely shrugged, humor coating his voice as he told the tale of his journey to the palace dungeon. "I got washed up on a reef in the middle of nowhere after the storm, almost grilled like a lobster before I was picked up by royal guards on a fancy royal ship. I thought I was finally rescued but when I stepped onboard, there was a…_minor disagreement_ between us."

Sinbad chuckled, his imagination filling in the blanks. "How many did you injure?"

"Twenty," his brother admitted, then defended his actions right away. "But they started it! Tried to arrest me for piracy, claiming I was trespassing in the kingdom!"

"Aye, I know." Sinbad nodded, recalling his own encounter and the accusations bestowed upon him for a crime he hadn't committed.

"We sailed around for a bit just like you," his brother continued, "arresting and capturing innocent sailors and merchants around the Bay of Myr. Then we returned here in Bagdad about three months ago, and I've been rotting in this dungeon ever since." Venom seeped into his words as he tugged at the heavy shackles around his wrist, restraining his strength against any attempt to break free. "Bagdad has changed since we left."

"So I've noticed," he sadly agreed, thinking back to the prolific life and the friendly connections they used to cherish before the cruel storm had struck their ship out of existence like a crushing hammer. "What happened to all our old friends?"

"I suppose all the smart ones left once Prince Casib and his Grand Vizier started making the laws." Doubar shook his head darkly, growing frustrated and grumpier the more he spoke about the current matter, like oil fueling a fire. "The Prince has gone insane, hunting pirates and criminals everywhere and sentencing them to death without trial. The world is going bunkers. Nobody truly knows what's going on, except that a great tragedy has befallen the kingdom." He leaned closer, lowering his voice in a careful tone. "The rumors say the Prince's betrothed was abducted."

"Abducted?" Sinbad frowned in puzzlement. "By who?"

"Powerful folks who seek to use her as leverage to get the Caliph's crown," Doubar said with a shrug, exposing his best guess before unexpectedly changing subject. "Anyway, I don't mean to sour the mood even more, but they brought you back just in time for your execution. At least now we can die together!"

Sinbad blinked. "What?"

"Aye," Doubar cheered sarcastically as he clasped him on the back, guiding him back to the spot where his chain was looped in a big iron ring bolted in the stone wall. "Executions are set for today, right in the middle of the market square to set an example. How do you like that? Killing innocent men as a mean to warn the rest of the populace and-"

"What about the Caliph?" Sinbad cut him off, his mind suddenly whirling like a spinning wheel, casting about to find a solution that might somehow save their necks. "Can't he stop his own son?"

Doubar shook his head, negating his rising hope. "Since the Prince's mother died, the Caliph just stays by himself. He barely even attends court."

"Wonderful," Sinbad pinched the bridge of his nose, sensing the impending arrival of a pulsing headache, but he refused to let his hope be crushed by all the political drama. The Gods had brought he and his brother back together; surely it wasn't so they could die side by side like criminals merely a few hours later. "Any way out of here?" he asked, clinging to optimism while his eyes surveyed the dank walls and the frail prisoners trembling in the shadows.

"I haven't found any in the past three months," Doubar replied, pulling at the iron loop bolted in the stone where he was shackled. "Not that I had a big range of manoeuvre to explore…" His voice trailed off as his blue eyes landed on his wrist, a frown creasing his bushy brow. "What is that? A gift from your captors?"

Sinbad followed his gaze down to his bracelet and shook his head, balling his hand into a fist as an impulse. "It was around my wrist when I woke up after the storm. I have no idea how I got it, who gave it to me, or what it means. I don't even-"

A punch echoed in the dungeon and a man abruptly landed at his feet, clutching his abdomen in writhing pain while Doubar suddenly bellowed a loud throaty laughter.

"Ah! Come, there's someone I want you to meet!" He declared with a grin, draping a big arm around his shoulder to lead him to the sound of more punches and kicks in a dark corner of the dungeon.

"Say something about my mother," a small man asked a taller one, chin raised in proud defiance.

"She's ugly," the tall scrawny man unabashedly replied.

"Swine," was all the small spiky man said before his fist collided with the man's jaw, sending him sprawling on the cold hard ground.

Doubar bellowed again as the poor man scurried away in fright to take refuge in the darkness, while Sinbad just frowned in confusion.

"That's Mustafa," Doubar pointed out, indicating the little man with an obviously much larger temper than his overall shape. "He's very much into keeping fit."

"Say something about my mother," Mustafa asked another prisoner walking by.

"She dresses you funny," the man said, and his answer was met with a punishing fist in the gut that had him doubling over with the wind driven out of his lungs.

"Mustafa, come!" Doubar beckoned him closer while the man shook unpleasant tingles out of his bruised hand from the previous blow. "I want you to meet my brother Sinbad."

Mustafa halted, eyebrows shooting up in skeptic surprise. "_The_ Captain Sinbad?"

"Aye, the one and only," Doubar confirmed, patting him on the back with pride.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Mustafa said, extending his hand out for a shake which Sinbad squeezed politely. "It's my hope that someday we may sail together."

"Well, I'm sorry to dash your hopes," he replied bitterly, casting his brother a side look. "But apparently we're all scheduled for a hanging today."

"Oh right," Mustafa blankly nodded, as if the hour of his impending death was nothing but a meaningless detail. "Well, it was nice to meet you."

Then the little man simply turned around and addressed a poor prisoner helplessly hanging from the shackles that were locking his arms in place on the stone wall.

"Say something about my mother," he demanded expectantly yet again.

The man merely shook in fear, forcing a toothless smile. "Lovely woman."

Mustafa patted him on the chest with satisfaction. "Thanks."

Then Sinbad simply watched him disappear in the darkness, quietly questioning the man's sanity after however long he was held captive in this dank putrid prison.

"He's a good man," Doubar pointed out, as if reading his brother's thoughts. "A bit short-tempered and impulsive but he's loyal and true."

"I'm sure he would make a good deck hand," Sinbad commented, attempting to remain hopeful but his thoughts soon slipped back into a black morass of sullenness. "But I suppose we'll never know."

Doubar grew morose beside him as well, a dark veil falling over his eyes. In a few hours, it would all be over anyway. In a few hours, nothing would matter anymore.

They were all going to die.

* * *

"_You're never going to get an audience with the Caliph if you stand here all day,"_ Dermott pointed out, complaining about her immobility for the past couple of minutes.

"I know," Maeve growled, frustration simmering in her blood as she stood like a sentinel on the corner of the street, gazing dreadfully at the massive walls protecting the royal palace with its double-brass doors plated with gold, and two perfect rows of guards posted on either side.

"What the bloody hell have we gotten ourselves into?" she murmured under her breath, fidgeting nervously on her feet at the prospect of her current mission.

"_We've made it this far,"_ her brother said with optimism. _"We can't turn back now."_

"I know," she growled again through gritted teeth, inhaling deeply to calm her knotted nerves and trying to gather her dwindling courage in order to face the royalty of this foreign kingdom she knew next to nothing about.

_This is such a shit plan_, she thought, biting her lips in silent admonishment with a slight shake of her head before she finally steeled herself, hardening her confidence and her composure sharply like a blade, then addressed Dermott with instructions. "Why don't you go keep an eye on our new wizard friend while I handle this? I still don't know if we can trust him completely and besides," she paused, eying the rows of soldiers guarding the palace entrance. "I'll look mad enough demanding an audience with the Caliph, best not make things worse if I'm seen conversing with a hawk."

"_Are you sure you'll be alright on your own?"_ he asked, squawking from his perch on her arm.

"Aye," she assured him with a nod. "Worst case scenario I'll end up locked in the dungeons with those bloody prisoners we're supposed to rescue."

"_Let's try to avoid that scenario, shall we?"_ Dermott beseeched, flapping his wings in protest.

"I'll do my best," Maeve replied with a heavy sigh. "Be careful."

"Aye." And her brother took off, a flutter of feathers vanishing above the white-washed buildings down the street.

Her heart swelled with silent worry, like it always did every time they were separated since the witch's curse had condemned him to his current state, her little brother so kind and innocent and now ominously vulnerable to the outside world. But she didn't let her mind dwell on such dark thoughts and quickly swatted them away like flies before switching her focus back to the palace towering before her, her stupid mission awaiting her.

With one final deep inhale, she headed for the double-brass doors, her step sure and steady, her back as straight as the steel of her broadsword sheathed behind her back. She did her best to look as confident as possible, chin raised and proud, her face a mask of silent regality, as if she knew exactly where she was going and was suitably entitled to her destination.

But as soon as she neared the rows of guarding soldiers, she saw their eyes land on her foreign figure and attire, questions dancing on their features with awkward blinks and quirking eyebrows as she kept advancing onward, a woman alone daring to approach the palace grounds.

Doubt flared in the marrow of her bones then, her blood suddenly pumping with rising resentment. _If I get arrested because of that old wizard, I'll-_

The second her booted foot landed on the first step leading up to the massive golden doors, metal-tipped spears crossed before her and blocked her path.

"Halt," a guard warned sharply. "You do not have access to enter here."

"I wish to demand an audience with the Caliph," she spoke firmly, commanding, her chin slightly tipping upward along with her request.

"On what motives?" the man inquired, his voice cold and protocolary.

"I have an urgent matter to discuss on behalf of Master Dim-Dim," she declared gravely, showing him the scroll the famous wizard had entrusted her with and which bore his personal seal.

To her surprise and relief, the guards' eyes momentarily widened and he briefly nodded to his companion, indicating his authorization to let her pass through and the spears before her immediately swung back to their respective sides, clearing the way. Another dip of the guard's cone-shaped helmet to an officer stationed on top of the rampart and the double-brass doors slowly grated open, revealing round-shaped towers at the end of a long alley framed with tall colonnades on either side.

Her mouth dropped open in awe, first at how easy her task was proving to be and second at the marvelous sight before her, the palace's round-topped towers glinting like polished jewels in the high noon sun, reflecting light and warmth. But her admiration was cut short as a squad of four guards quickly steered her ahead, forming a secure square around her like a private escort to bring her to the Caliph, leading the way into this rich and lavish décor that was unfolding like the pages of a book on either side of her.

Her gaze was inevitably drawn to gardens of exquisite hanging vines and blooming flowers, to exotic birds chirping in wired cages, to sandy walls adorned with colorful carpets, and to doors and windows with shutters artfully painted with crossing lines and stars, everything so beautiful and captivating her skin tingled with wonder at this foreign culture so very different from her own.

A thousand questions hung on her lips but her squad of guards remained silent as a grave, soon guiding her through a series of doors and stairs, ascending to upper levels where they met with yet more guards and servants and maids, until finally another pair of mighty double-doors gilded in filigree of gold grated open and the throne room appeared at last, with lavish carpets on the floor suddenly muffling the sound of their boots.

Tall windows adorned each wall on either side of the long regal room and lengthy wooden tables lined the center aisle, at the end of which stood the royal seat of power, a cozy alcove of large cushions gently shadowed by heavy colorful drapes of greens and yellows.

As she walked down the aisle, surrounded by her solemn escort, her throat went painfully dry, like sand scraping skin raw, and her eyes travelled to the old man seated on the plush version of a throne, dressed in lavish yellow robes with a matching turban around his head, the face below creased with weariness and lined with something akin to sadness, as if all the vigor of his spirit had been sucked away by shifting demons.

The Caliph.

There was no doubt about it.

A younger man stood by the alcove as well, his skin milky white and soft, a hairless baby face betraying he was nothing but a young lad still, although his eyes bore the weight of dark ordeals that seemed to trouble and torment his mind greatly, just like the Caliph. The Prince, perhaps? He certainly looked the part, with his extravagant purple outfit, his shoulders squared back and his hands neatly clasped behind his back.

Father and son both appraised her as she was led before them, the silence in the room growing suffocating by the minute as her nerves knotted in her gut like tortuous roots, the guards finally leaving their posts around her to stand aside and flank the long tables on either side of the room, leaving her alone in the middle of the aisle like a prey.

A sickly-looking man then caught her eyes, standing a few paces behind the Prince, his bony face as pale as death and his black robes doing little to compliment his harsh, lifeless features. The hair at the back of her neck instantly prickled like pointy thorns, wariness rapidly shooting down her limbs. That man, whoever he was, was dangerous, and when his voice suddenly rang in the throne room it was as if death itself was speaking amongst the living.

"You stand in the presence of the Caliph of Bagdad and his son, Prince Casib, heir to the throne," he announced, glaring down at her in quiet disdain. "State your business."

She returned the pale man his glare for a few daring seconds, and then officially faced the Caliph. "Your Grace," she bowed in deference, slightly hesitant. "Master Dim-Dim sent me. I am here to petition for the release of two prisoners." Her words sounded ridiculous to her own ears as she paused, then added awkwardly. "…for the good of the realm."

Her statement was met with formidable silence, one so heavy the room could barely contain it. Until the Prince huffed in derision.

"That is a bold request," he chided, his tone sharp and mocking as he looked down at her from the elevated dais where the royal alcove was situated. "We cannot simply release criminals because Master Dim-Dim demands it. They will be judged for their crimes and punished accordingly as is the law of our kingdom."

"Your Grace, I am simply the messenger," she replied, abandoning her submitting half-crouch to stand back to her full height once more, squaring her shoulders like steel. "Perhaps this scroll might shed some light on the matter. Master Dim-Dim asked me to deliver it at once."

As soon as her hand presented the scroll, the man in black stepped forward and yanked it from her grasp, his dark eyes threatening and dangerous before he turned back to the Prince and handed him the rolled piece of parchment.

Maeve eyed him like a hawk, wondering just what position he could possibly be holding at court. Political adviser? Military strategist? Whatever it was, his very body seemed to be leaking poison and yet she seemed to be the only one to notice, the Caliph and the Prince seemingly unbothered by such an eery presence.

Her scrutiny then shifted to Prince Casib as he broke the seal and unfurled Master Dim-Dim's scroll, his green eyes reading the message inside.

"Well?" The Caliph asked dully, speaking for the first time, his voice as weary and crisped as his features.

"He demands the release of a certain Sinbad and his brother Doubar..." The Prince frowned, as if the names were sparking something in his mind.

"Sinbad?" The Caliph straightened from his seat, vigor seeping back into his voice while a gleam of life returned to his old eyes, the previous boredom chased away as he leveled his gaze on her questioningly. "Sinbad the Sailor?" He asked again with interest, her lack of confirmation as to the man's identity spurring him on as he shook his head in puzzlement. "There must be a mistake. I personally employed the man for a series of shipping trades and cargo deliveries seven months ago in the west, and as far as I know, he and his brother have not returned yet. Is this truly the man Master Dim-Dim is seeking? And for the good of the realm, you say?"

Maeve could merely stare back at him wordlessly, the names of the prisoners ringing no bell of recognition on her part. "I do not know, Your Grace," she replied with truth, attempting to urge her request forward. "As I previously stated, I am only the messenger and Master Dim-Dim was in a great hurry. He believes those men to be of important value for a voyage East, to aid in the defeat of a powerful sorcerer and his daughter. Perhaps you have heard of them, Turok and Rumina?"

The Prince's head snapped in her direction sharply and he hissed at her like a snake. "You do not have permission to utter those names within these walls."

"_Casib_," the Caliph rebuked him sternly with a scolding look, then turned to her once more, apologizing. "I pray you forgive my son's temper. These powerful sorcerers have been making a series of threats against my kingdom for some time now, and they finally took action a while ago, abducting his beloved bride to blackmail me into giving up my crown."

The Caliph's statement nearly knocked her over like a feather, and she had to rock back on her heels as she absorbed this new information, wondering why on earth Master Dim-Dim had omitted to share it with her before hurriedly sending her here to make a fool of herself. _That old, cunning fox of a wizard…_

She suddenly felt like a pawn on a chest game, resentment licking at her bones likes flames, but she cautiously reined it in and remembered the vital purpose of her assignment, her ticket to avenging her brother. "I am sorry to hear that, Your Grace," she offered with sympathy, then shifted the subject once more. "But Master Dim-Dim aims to defeat them and-"

"I ordered Dim-Dim to help us weeks ago and he has done nothing!" Prince Casib seethed again, cutting her off. "And now he believes a common sailor can rescue my betrothed? I will not risk the life of the future Queen by entrusting such a dangerous mission to a complete stranger!"

"Sinbad is everything but a common sailor," the Caliph opposed with consternation, his son's words rattling him like thunder. "If anyone can make such a perilous voyage East and ensure Master Dim-Dim's safety while providing aid to defeat Turok and rescue Adena, it's him!" His unwavering admiration for the man filled his voice, blind trust and wild hope sparking in his old eyes as he continued praising the mysterious sailor with fondness. "He didn't earn his reputation for nothing. The man is the best swordsman in the realm and he can sail through any storm. There's a reason why the people call him the Master of the Seven Seas."

But Prince Casib merely swatted the acclaiming words aside, unimpressed. "Yes, I've heard the tales, Father, but-"

"Then we need to release him and his brother at once!" Maeve abruptly declared, interrupting him without decorum as a sense of alarm suddenly crept into her blood. If these men were supposed to be at sea as the Caliph had previously stated, and Master Dim-Dim had sent her here to fetch them because they had apparently been arrested, then something was wrong. She could not yet explain it but she could sense the urgency of the situation crawling in the marrow of her bones. Time was ticking, as if precious seconds were trickling away like water through her fingers.

"_But,_" Prince Casib started again, biting on the word she had interrupted as he lectured her with scorn. "This man is not here. The Caliph just told you. He's at sea."

"Master Dim-Dim seems to believe otherwise so perhaps we should check the dungeons," she retorted with equal scorn, holding his daring glare with her own while her nerves twisted into knots.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Are you calling Master Dim-Dim a liar?"

"Watch your tongue, Miss," the man in black suddenly warned, stepping forward threateningly. "You are threading on a dangerous line."

"This is a waste of time," she shook her head with simmering frustration, turning to the Caliph to plead her case instead of arguing with his idiot of a son. "I'd like to be escorted to the dungeons at once, please."

But before the Caliph could grant her request, a guard stepped on the dais and whispered to the Prince, the young lad's features creasing in confusion and with a little flicker of distress. "My men may have apprehended a certain sailor who claimed to be this Sinbad person about six months ago, on a remote island near the Bay of Myr," he explained, relaying the soldier's words.

"And?" The Caliph pressed on, his interest picked by this unsettling piece of information.

"He was shipwrecked, sir," the guard replied directly, along with a reverent dip of his helmeted head. "and he didn't have much to confirm his identity."

"And what did you do with him?"

The guard shifted on his feet uncomfortably, afraid to meet the Caliph's gaze. "We arrested him, sir," he admitted with embarrassment, attempting to justify his conduct. "As was our duty to protect the borders of the realm from invading pirates. He was thrown into the cells this morning when we returned."

Silence crashed in the throne room as if the ceiling had caved in on them, heavy and choking for a long moment as the Caliph furiously stared at the poor officer, until another soldier hesitantly spoke with both caution and alarm.

"Your Grace, the executions started thirty minutes ago…" he informed, almost trembling under the Caliph's indignant glare.

"Executions?" the old man echoed with a roar, rising from his cushioned seat. "By the Gods, for what charges?"

"These men were criminals," the young guard stuttered, shaking like a leaf. "Trespassing in our kingdom."

"Sinbad is a citizen of our realm, you fool!" The Caliph bellowed once more, his gaze boiling with unbridled fury as he turned to his son. "We need to stop the executions at once!"

Prince Casib had visibly shrunk in the wake of his father's booming anger, his baby face turning pale as a ghost, and he rapidly acquiesced to the imperative order with a vigorous nod. He then hurriedly scampered down the dais in a clumsy flourish of purple garbs and brushed past her like a gust of wind, a dozen guards following in tow behind him with clanks of their shields and urgent shouts to prepare horses and make haste to the market square

For a moment Maeve stood frozen in the throne room, merely watching the whole scene unfold before her as a standby witness, the sense of urgency in her blood reaching a white-hot strike and rooting her in place as good as stone. The prisoners she had petition to release were out there in the market square, wrongfully sentenced to death and about to be executed. Those men were her ticket to defeating Rumina and freeing her brother. Dim-Dim would be furious if she returned empty-handed, and bearing news of death no less.

As the Caliph and the shady man in black also rushed down the dais to follow after the Prince and his retinue of guards, her heart flared in her chest like a caged beast, every fiber of her being suddenly catching on fire as if struck by lightening. Without thinking, she wheeled on her heels and ran after them, abruptly possessed by the furious urge to unleash hell upon earth to stop the executions and rescue those men.

But she was barely out of the throne room when the air was punched out of her lungs and she choked, paralysed by a sudden blinding pain, sharp and cold, forcing her to halt and brace herself on a nearby wall.

Her left shoulder was freezing, the flesh below her collarbone frosting over and the pain stabbing through her like a dagger of ice. She couldn't breathe.

The soul mark inked in her flesh was roaring to life.

He was here.

* * *

"Let's go, seadogs!" The foul mountain of a guard barked as they were shoved into a line, a macabre cortege of souls heading for the gallows.

The had all been shackled for the occasion, iron bonds locked around their wrists and ankles, clinking with every slow step they took down the crowded street where citizens had gathered to watch the executions, although kept at bay by rows of soldiers to maintain peace and order.

Except for the occasional protests from the people in the crowd pleading for the release of a family member or a friend unjustly imprisoned, the silence was dreadful, sucking the life out of whatever minutes they had left to live.

Doubar was right behind him, solemnly quiet, and Mustafa right in front, cursing and fidgeting as they trudged down the line toward the center of the market square, slowly approaching the wooden gallows erected there for all to see.

Innocent prisoners were already being hanged, three by three, their necks breaking with terrible cracks as the masked executioner actioned the lever that opened the traps beneath their feet and watched as they fell to their deaths, bodies sometimes spasming for endless seconds before at last going numb, lifeless.

"Want to make a run for it?" Mustafa asked over his shoulder, visibly distraught, like a sailor helplessly casting about for a life-line in a raging ocean. The carefully detached man in the dungeon was gone, replaced by a prisoner swallowed by anguish.

Sinbad glanced around at the dozens of soldiers stationed all around, barring any possible escape routes, not to mention that with shackled ankles they would never get far enough to claim their freedom. There was simply no where to run. This was the end.

"Depends on what you prefer, I suppose," he replied grimly to the little man. "Dying by the sword or by the noose."

Mustafa nervously chuckled. "I'd like to die in a good fight, staring my opponent in the eye, not wiggle at the end of a rope like a dead fish."

Sinbad had to concede he had a fair point but before he could speak, Doubar's gruff voice echoed from behind him. "I want to die by my brother's side, standing tall with honor until the end, not be run through by a blade and bleed to death in the mud for nothing."

Sinbad craned his neck around to offer him a small quiet smile, letting him know they shared the same wishful choice in the matter. His brother's gaze was so full of life and yet so painfully resigned to imminent death, it was both a comforting and a chilling sight all at once.

It should have calmed his own nerves to see him so darkly serene, yet he knew that beneath it all Doubar was brimming with broken fury, desperate to rip their iron bonds open and tear down every single guard around them. But there was nothing he could do. He was a bear trapped in a cage, his powerful strength shackled, outnumbered and useless.

They continued to shuffle their feet to their doom, another trio of sailors snapping their necks and dangling from ropes before their very eyes until they were carelessly cut down and piled on a cart while another trio was ushered roughly on the wooden platform to suffer the same fate. It was a hard sight to bear, terrible and cruel, to watch all those men tremble like leaves, close their eyes, utter prayers and then fall dead, their stories gone forever.

Mustafa was growing restless before him, his entire body charging like a bolt of lightening until it was ready to explode, radiating torment as he counted down the remaining prisoners before his turn inevitably came. Sinbad quickly calculated as well; two more trios and their time would come, the three of them on the gallows to hang side by side.

A few more minutes and it would be over. No more adventures. No more sailing the Seven Seas. No more life. Just…nothing. Or whatever the Gods would decide to do with them afterwards.

The next three prisoners were brought on the platform, positioned over their respective traps by the merciless soldiers and Sinbad's throat suddenly clamped tight, filling with hundreds of unspoken words, the kind of words that usually come flooding when everything comes to an end.

The soldiers slipped the nooses in place, tightening them around the men's neck and then stepped aside, nodding to the masked executioner.

The lever was pulled and the prisoners fell, their necks breaking and their bodies wriggling.

He heard Doubar wincing behind him at the sight, and the words he so desperately wished to utter remained locked in his chest, like a scream muffled in the night. He forced his mouth open, ready to turn around and gather his brother in a fierce hug, never to let go, but wails of despair suddenly sliced through the air.

One of the next three prisoners who were forced on the gallows began clutching at the guards for mercy, begging for his life like a desperate soul, tears of terror streaming down his young face as he prayed and screamed, while his two companions shook from head to toe on their spots.

The sight of the poor man was heartbreaking as the guards forced the noose around his neck, holding him in place by brute force, and the moment of his death was twice as terrible as they pushed him down the open trap beneath his feet, where he fell and didn't break his neck. Instead he was left to wriggle for endless seconds, suffocating on his own weight, while the crowd grimly watched and the silence was filled with his choking gasps.

Sinbad felt a mighty surge of fury ignite within him at the cruel sight, trickling down to the tip of his fingers as he balled his hands into fists and calculated how fast he could possibly dash past the guards and put the lad out of his misery, but Doubar's strong hand on his arm firmly stopped him in his tract before he could make a foolish move.

And it was too late anyway, for the young man finally stilled and the soldiers cut him down, throwing his limp body on top of the others like a nameless sack of grain.

Then it was their turn, their time coming to an end, just like that. Mustafa was led on the platform and Sinbad followed blankly, Doubar right behind him as the soldiers positioned them properly over their respective traps, the shackles around their ankles clinking one last time.

He was shaking now, there was no stopping it, his entire body entering survival mode and painfully bracing for what would come. His muscles were spasming, his throat clamping down and choking him. He couldn't breathe.

A guard slipped the noose around his neck, the large rope coarse and heavy as it was firmly tightened and the knot rested on his shoulder.

It was over.

"Wanna say something about my mother?" Mustafa said, his voice breaking with a choke.

Sinbad chuckled despite the air locked in his chest, words sticking on his tongue. He shared one last look with the little man, then turned to his brother, meeting the weight of his gaze as tears blurred his vision.

"See you on the other side, Little Brother," Doubar murmured, his voice rattled with a sob as a noose was slipped around his neck as well.

Sinbad swallowed hard, anguish and terror washing over him like a tidal wave and he had to close his eyes against the sudden dizziness and the overwhelming nausea.

It was over. The trap would open and he'd fall and then-

His left wrist burned, white-hot fire abruptly erupting on his flesh, blistering and sharp as a blade slicing through his skin. His eyes snapped open in panic and he balled his hand into a fist, the iron shackle around his wrist clinking as he winced against the unforgiving pain, his blood boiling with terrible heat.

The soul mark.

The long-forgotten brand inked in his flesh, it was blazing like a storm beneath his bracelet.

She was here.

His head snapped up and he searched the crowd wildly, strangers' faces dancing before his eyes as he shook with wild hope, suffocating where he stood, like a flame burning out under a glass jar.

She was here.

But the executioner's hand reached for the lever, ready to pull and-

"STOP!" A man's voice commanded in the distance, loud and wild and desperate. "Stop the executions!"

The crowd parted at once, horses speedily rushing through with a young man in lavish purple clothes at the head of the small cavalry, looking positively frantic as he waved his arms repeatedly to stop the guards on the gallows from proceeding any further.

"Sinbad!" he shouted as he jumped down from his horse and frantically surveyed the prisoners standing in line by the platform. "Which one of you is Sinbad?"

His left wrist was still on fire, his flesh blazing with unforgiving heat like the bite from some fiery demon.

She was here.

He could barely hear the crazed man shouting his name right in front of the gallows where he was standing. His ears were buzzing, his eyes riveted on the crowd where people pushed and elbowed each other to get a better look at what was going on. He clutched his wrist harder in an attempt to subdue the blazing burn of the mark, but to no avail. His entire arm was about to fall off if the punishing, blistering flames didn't stop.

More royal guards rushed in on horses, the purple man ordering them to search for him through the prisoners, and then a woman appeared amongst them, her fiery red hair catching in the bright sunlight as she reined her horse at the edge of the crowd, her dark eyes searching for something with wild urgency as she clutched her left shoulder.

He froze like stone, nearly fainting with the swell of emotions that exploded in his chest, and when her eyes locked with his across the crowd, reflecting the mighty weight of everything that was erupting in the marrow of his bones, he thought he would be reduced to ashes right then and there.

But the mad man in purple robes was still shouting his name, desperate in his quest to find him.

"Captain Sinbad!" he repeated wildly, shouting at the prisoners with rising frustration. "Where is he?!"

The woman stared at him still, her beautiful face struck by quiet shock, raw and immeasurable as he remained rooted in place, shackled in iron, his neck in a noose, and his wrist on fire.

"I am your Prince!" The young man exclaimed again, this time yelling at the guards on the gallows. "I demand you tell me where he is at once!"

"Hey Prince!" Mustafa barked down at the hysteric man. "You're standing right in front of him!"

* * *

**To be continued**


End file.
